Charn's Fantasy Human Stories

  Andrew's laptop balanced on his thighs, the heat from the processor radiating through his jeans and warming the heavy swell of his testicles beneath. The contraction he had felt in his apartment had never quite gone away, and his sack felt tight and constricted around his nuts. The company van rumbled north on the 101, the suspension groaning under the combined weight of five men and their equipment, and Andrew typed with methodical precision while the others filled the cab with the kind of filthy banter that you'd expect to see in a League of Legends public lobby. Josh was mid-story, something about a Tinder date who'd tried to photograph his cock for an art project, and the van swayed with the resulting laughter. "-and I'm like, ' Lady, that ain't a selfie stick ,'" Josh finished, slapping his massive thigh with a hearty THWACK. Alvin wheezed from where he was wedged between Josh and the window, his muscular frame compressed into the narrow spa...

  The phone rang just as Andrew Clarke-Samuel’s hand closed around the last can of Monster in the mini fridge. He grimaced, checked the label for a best-by date, and decided whatever new flavor had melted the can’s blue ink into his palm probably counted as a serving of antioxidants. He pressed the can against his forehead, the cold biting through his short-cropped hair, and let the vibration from the phone rattle against his thigh before answering. "Yeah?" On the other end, Steve Zolware’s voice carried the precise, colorless cadence of an undertaker at a Nobel ceremony. "Mr. Clarke-Samuel. I trust you’re still running S.A.C. West Coast operations." Andrew snorted, wedged the can between his biceps and his jaw, and spun his office chair to face the city’s night skyline. "Depends if there’s a next payment, Zolware. Last check bounced." He enjoyed the way Zolware’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly, but there if you were listening for weakness. Zolware re...